


Solitary

by Shoi



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-27
Updated: 2013-02-27
Packaged: 2017-12-03 20:24:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/702287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shoi/pseuds/Shoi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All you can do is try to pick up where you left off.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> well, not sure how to intro this one. it's very old (2004) and all kinds of new canons for the series have come out since. but i'm still pretty pleased with quite a bit of it, and i'd like to preserve it somewhere off lj, and hey, who knows, someone might like it. gen, mostly about snake finding his way out of shadow moses, long after he's already left, and sort of making a lifelong friend in the process.

He stood on the porch and looked out through the trees, squinting with fading sleep. The cold burn of the air in his lungs told him it was evening, though the world outside was still dark.

From within the house a voice said mournfully, "The wireless signal out here is awful." 

"Hm," he replied, either distracted or uncaring. "That's why I like it." A few of the dogs were emerging from beneath the snow and around the shed at the sound of his voice, ears pricked and tails held aloft in friendly greeting. He sat on the steps, brushing snow off the damp wood before he settled, and reached out to scratch the neck of the first animal, who'd crept halfway up the stairs to drool on him. He rubbed the tip of one ear between his fingers, and she whined and leaned against his shoulder encouragingly. The dog was bulgingly pregnant, a fact that he had not been pleased to discover upon his return. 

"Snake, there's a few e-mails here from Mei Ling," said the voice, and Snake turned, slinging an arm over the dog's back and peering back through the still-open doorway. "Mostly follow up reports, and... oh. She says Nastasha's writing a book." 

They'd only been at rest for two months, and the situation remained horribly awkward. Hal Emmerich was not an easy person to live with, by Snake's simplified standards. There hadn't been time or funds to secure a better location. The cabin and it's accompanying shed was meant for one man of limited technological involvement and a team of sled dogs, and the surrounding wilderness made internet, cellular, and radar signal frustratingly difficult to obtain. Otacon's constant complaining didn't make it any easier; he was lost without his electronic toys, and spent a lot of time puttering around the small kitchen, investing in cooking experiments and making far, far too much coffee. Coffee making seemed to be his nervous habit, and Otacon had anxiety permanently wired into his internal hardware. 

Snake was getting sick of the taste of hazelnut coffee. He was also getting sick of someone else constantly in his personal space, constantly talking, constantly reminding him of small meaningless things he preferred to let slide until last minute. They needed supplies from Valdez. More dog food. The roof was leaking. And so it went. 

"A book," he repeated dully, turning around again. "That's nice. About the evils of nuclear war, I guess." 

"Well, sort of." Snake didn't even have to be looking at Otacon anymore to know that he was adjusting his glasses. "About Shadow Moses." 

Snake grimaced as the dog licked his face; he said " _Panya,_ " in a quietly scolding voice, and she whined, sprawled across the steps, and put her head on his knee, imploring him not to use her name in such angry tones again. 

Otacon sounded worried. "Snake, this could mean trouble for us. Mei Ling doesn't know what her slant is." 

"As long as it's got the basic truth in it," Snake replied, smoothing a hand along Panya's swollen stomach, "I don't give a shit." 

In the ensuing awkward silence he lit a cigarette and breathed smoke and steam, satisfied in the feeling that he'd just won some kind of battle. 

The conversation, if one could have called it that in the first place, died out after that. The rest of Mei Ling's e-mails Otacon read out loud, and Snake tuned them out for the most part. The only thing that pricked his interest was the final one, in which Mei Ling mentioned the opening of the Virtual Reality training program. 

"They're programming Shadow Moses into the system," Otacon said, and followed with a direct reading from the e-mail. " _The first trainee to complete the operation was numbered 57-86. I don't have any other details about the trainee, but so far 'the powers that be' are declaring the exercise a complete success._ " 

"Training soldiers in VR is the worst idea I've heard in a long time," Snake commented around his fourth cigarette. Panya was curled up on the porch behind him, snoring. "There's no sense of reality. No real sense of danger. Even if they can simulate pain, it still doesn't change the fact that the trainee knows that it's not _real_." He paused, examining the dark realization that was forming before him. "Unless that's what they want." 

"Soldiers with no sense of danger?" Otacon said, and Snake sighed. 

" _Yeah_ ," he said, with obvious displeasure, rising from the steps and flicking the still burning end of his cigarette away into the snow. He watched it smolder and then die. "Yeah." 

When he turned he found Otacon's eyes on Panya, still snoozing comfortably sprawled out on the porch, her massive stomach rising and falling. "She's due soon, isn't she?" 

"Any day now, but I'm betting tonight sometime." Snake had been through this before, with Auja. The damn dogs refused to come inside the house out of the cold. They'd been trained too well and none of them were eager for Snake to raise his voice; they regarded his repeated orders to "get in the damn house, goddammit" as some sort of horrible prank he was attempting to play on them. 

Otacon's mention of it reminded him, and Snake headed inside to rummage through the standup closet in the corner. Otacon watched him in confusion. "What are you doing?" 

"She's not going to come in the house," Snake replied, as patiently as he could, having no desire to explain beyond that. He pulled out a hastily rolled sleeping bag, thick with down. "I'm taking her into the shed." 

"What? Why?" Otacon was frowning. "For how long?" 

"Until she's _done._ " The emphasis on the final word conveyed firmly that Snake was through discussing it. He headed for the door again. 

The problem was, he reflected, as the bitter chill of the night descended over the horizon, as he sat against the shed wall with the unzipped sleeping bag tucked around his shoulders, was that Otacon was moving _on_. He was making plans, looking forward, organizing. He was seeking out contacts, trying to dig up dirt new and old in all directions. 

Otacon wanted to make things better. 

The only thing that Snake could think of, that he really _wanted_ , was to be left alone. 

But he couldn't afford that, he knew, and probably never could again. The sensation that his time was limited still lingered. He'd never gotten a straight answer out of Naomi. _Live_ , she'd said, and he wanted to laugh at the memory of her voice wavering in his ear; how was he supposed to live, really live, if he didn't even know how long he had to do it? 

He didn't laugh, because that wasn't him, but he did smirk a little to himself. Sleep, when it came, was quiet and dark. 

When Snake awoke it was to the muffled squeaking of newborn puppies. From her warm nest of blankets and small bodies Panya's white-blue eyes fixed on him the moment he rose, showing that brief flash of protective maternal instinct, and he decided, wisely, that she'd be fine on her own. 

The smell of coffee was strong when he opened the cabin door. Otacon looked up at him, bleary, hair even more mussed than usual and glasses slightly askew. The glow of his laptop reflected oddly against his face. 

"Puppies," Snake announced without fanfare, and flopped into the nearest chair, snagging the cup of coffee that sat waiting for him on the table. Hazelnut, by the smell, but he drank it anyway, inwardly grateful to be out of the awful cold. "What time is it?" 

"Five," Otacon replied, scratching his head without looking up. 

Snake eyed him. "Have you even slept?" 

"No?" It really was a question. Otacon couldn't remember. "I don't think so, anyway. I've been working on this new idea." 

Irritation closed in on him again, for a moment, before he pushed it away. What was the point of resisting it any longer? He was still himself. Solid Snake, the legendary solider, the powerhouse, the capable, the strong. If he dropped dead from FOX-DIE tomorrow or the next day or the next, it wouldn't matter, it wouldn't mean a damn thing because he hadn't made the effort to live. He knew that was what Naomi had meant. _Try at least, you bastard, try to live, because I can't make myself kill you._

"What is it?" 

Otacon beamed at him suddenly, with the fierce pride of inventors everywhere. "An anti-terrorist organization," he said. "I'm calling it "Philanthropy." 

"Philanthropy," Snake responded, over the rim of his mug, "Is the stupidest name for any organization that I think I've ever heard." He watched as Otacon's expression changed, first hurt, then uncertain, then thoughtful. "You really think it's that bad?" he asked, worried now. 

Snake, retreating into the put-upon silence of the supremely tried, only drank his coffee, and said nothing.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Otacon was talking about him behind his back.

It wasn't difficult to slip back into the old habit of acting as though he were the last man alive. Up every morning the moment the sun got a little brighter and out to feed the dogs, and after that there was always something else to be done, firewood or target practice or any number of things. Despite his inward reluctance Snake kept up with his shooting and his hand to hand, more out of a bemused sense of familiarity than an iron sense of duty, and even more so because there were eyes on him almost all the time, now.

Otacon was talking about him behind his back. 

He hadn't actually seen the e-mails, of course, but Otacon was no experienced spy, had no real poker face to speak of, and in the evenings the other man would eye him speculatively before turning his attention to his latest correspondence with Mei Ling. 

Snake imagined the messages contained phrases like _amazing coping mechanism_ and _really unfriendly_. The latter didn't bother him. His short temper with Otacon was, in some ways, intentional, and even when it wasn't he couldn't bring himself to genuinely care. 

He wasn't sure yet what he thought of the former. 

The puppies were a little older now, and they followed him around the yard like tumbling ducklings, tripping over logs, over snowbanks, over each other, yipping and fighting and doing generally what puppies were made to do. Panya snoozed on the porch, one ear half-cocked to listen for the sound of puppies in distress as Snake led them in circles, using their natural urge to follow him as an opportunity for a lesson. He whistled, a certain pitch and tone, and turned left, leading the straggling line in a counterclockwise loop. He whistled again, slightly higher, and turned them in the other direction, making figure eights through the snow and murmuring quiet encouragements to them until the sound of the porch creaking made him pause. 

Otacon gave him a smile that was half friendly and half wary. 

Snake waited for the familiar rise of personal irritation, and found himself faltering slightly when it didn't come as expected. He said, "What," in a slightly quieter tone than he would have liked. 

"You talk to them like they're people," Otacon said, quiet himself, gripping the porch railing with both hands. "She used to do that." 

"They can't really understand what I'm saying," Snake said, mostly to cover the vague unease he felt at being compared to Sniper Wolf. "But they like the sounds." 

Wolf had died on her back under the barrel of his gun, pleading with him to finish her off before she bled out completely. She'd poured her life's story out with the last of her breath and then he'd shot her in the head and left her there on the snowy field in the white, silent night. 

She'd been the one responsible for Meryl. 

It was different when they were trying to kill him. That was to be expected; he was the enemy, the soldier, the interloper. They were doing what they had been placed there to do, each trying to meld their own life's philosophies around someone else's grander scheme. 

But it hadn't been him making bloody red halos in the snow that day, and the idea of himself, held up to Wolf's standards and actions, was enough to make him twitch. 

_I don't kill for love. I don't kill for sport. I don't kill for pleasure._ Those three reasons were solid enough to defend with, and so he shook it off, as briskly as he could. "The cement you wanted," he said, and Otacon blinked and looked over at him again. "It's in the shed." 

Otacon's expression brightened. "Oh, great!" he exclaimed, leaning forward on his hands against the railing. The sunlight reflected off his glasses when he moved. Snake squinted at him. "We've already got the bucket, and the pole-" 

"Just what are you planning to do?" Otacon had been forbidden on pain of death from installing his new satellite dish on the house itself. After some distinctly sulky thought he'd finally announced that this would be acceptable, so long as he was provided with a bucket, a tall pole, and a bag of cement mix. Snake was inherently wary of scientific minds- he'd known too many of them over the course of his career- but he'd either been too tired or too annoyed at the time to really question Otacon's plan of action. Now it stared him boldly in the face, and there was that vague twist of unease again. 

The other man smiled, and reached up to slide his glasses back up his nose again. "You'll see," he said. 

By sundown there was a satellite pole planted firmly in a mound of snow to the left of the shed. Dart had already marked it matter-of-factly as belonging to him. 

Snake, despite himself, was impressed. 

When he slept that night he dreamed of Shadow Moses and Zanzibar; Meryl spoke softly in his ear of the future she no longer had, and Fox was laughing at him from somewhere far away. The setting drifted, became a distant jungle in summer where the sound of gunfire echoed off the trees like violent birdsong. A voice he knew but didn't recognize said, "Friends are nothing but potential enemies. If you learn anything from me, make it that." 

"I don't know who you are," Snake said, reasonably, because he was aware it was a dream and there wasn't any point in beating around the bush. 

"I was you a long time ago," his reflection replied, and grinned as though pleased by the analogy. "And now you're me. FOX kills us all in the end." 

That didn't make any sense; it was Frank who was dead, crushed beneath tons of hostile metal, and Snake, frustrated, attempted to mention this only to find that what ever words he spoke were drowned by the sound of helicopters. 

When he awoke before dawn he sat up and stared out at the falling snow for a long time, waiting for some kind of meaning to materialize out of the swirling white.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Let me tell you a story."

_"Let me tell you a story."  
_

This was no strange and wavering hallucination dream-state. His reflection was sitting calmly at the top of the porch steps, holding a lit cigar and looking out into the snowy forest beyond. The light of the evening filtered through the trees; Snake could feel the sun going down. 

"Once upon a time there was a little girl who only did what she was told," said his reflection, slowly. His eyes were blue like deep water, and calm. "She was a good girl. Play tag, they told her, and she won every game. Play hide-and-seek, they told her, and she found all the other players. Play make believe, they said, and she did more than pretend. She became the part she'd been given to play." 

"Is this a fairytale or a lecture?" Snake said, anticipating the point, and his reflection looked up at him with vague irritation. 

"Don't interrupt me," he said, and put the cigar between his lips, taking a long, slow drag. Snake waited in silence, because it was a dream and there wasn't much else he could do. 

"She taught her playmates how to fight the playground bullies," his reflection went on at last, removing the cigar again. "She taught them how to teach others, as well. There was only one thing that little girl never learned, but it was the most important." 

Snake, sensing his cue, said quietly, "And that was?" 

"How to tell them 'no'." 

And that was the word that rang in Snake's ears as reality settled back in, and he awoke again with sunlight slashing across his face. 

"You were talking in your sleep last night," Otacon said, leaning against the kitchen counter with his usual mug of coffee in one hand. It was the first thing he'd said to Snake. Otacon apparently didn't put much stock in good mornings. "The walls in this place are really thin." 

Snake, seated at the table facing the window, lifted his head and gave the other man a long, considering look, obviously waiting for him to elaborate on why this was important enough to mention. Otacon didn't shy, however, only tilted his head a little, and added, "I didn't hear what you said. You sounded angry." 

"I wasn't," Snake said, automatically, but he was frowning now; he added, "Talking, I mean," as something of an afterthought. That was a lie, but he couldn't quite explain why he'd felt the immediate need to deny the anger when he'd felt it, a deep and boiling rage somewhere far beneath the surface. Remembering it startled him a little; it was a vicious, living feeling, old and familiar and only just now reawakening. 

That lack of control over his own reactions unnerved him. Snake looked out the window again, to where the snow was just beginning to fall again, fat white flakes that indicated a significant change in the temperature. It was getting colder. 

Otacon didn't seem in the mood to push him any further, thankfully. He gave a strange little sigh that seemed part acceptance and part exasperation, and stepped around the edge of the counter towards the table, standing at Snake's left shoulder. "Here," he said, sliding a single sheet of printed computer paper onto the table. Snake blinked at it for a moment. 

"...E-mail?" he said at last, and Otacon nodded, sliding his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the distinctive unconscious gesture of thinking scientists everywhere. 

"I was asking her about that Virtual Reality thing she'd mentioned before." Otacon leaned over and put his finger to the paper. "She keeps repeating this number." 

Snake squinted at the words for a moment, reading the first sentence that caught his eye. 

_"As to the first part of that question, I don't know. According to the Colonel there are several promising trainees, but they're really only making efforts to groom 5786, as he seems to be at the top of the class."_

"5786," Snake said, and glanced up. Otacon nodded. 

"Obviously she's referring to a specific trainee," he replied, in a slow and thoughtful sort of way. 

"Why is that significant? Why do we care about one trainee?" Snake replied, one eyebrow twitching upwards slightly. "It's a VR training program. If FOX-HOUND decides I'm an issue, they're not going to waste one of their precious coddled rookies on taking me out." 

"Why not?" Otacon asked, genuinely curious. "If they're specially trained, wouldn't they be-" 

"Because it doesn't matter how good he is. I'll kill whoever they send after me," Snake interrupted, voice grim. "And they know it." 

There was a pause, awkward and dark, during which the sound of the falling snow outside seemed almost audible. 

At last Snake added, "Besides, they don't have a reason to consider me a threat. Not yet." 

He looked at Otacon, but Otacon only gave him a small, vaguely unhappy smile, and picked up the printed e-mail, tucking it back into the folder from which he'd withdrawn it. "Not yet," he echoed, but whether this was agreement, a request for confirmation, or something more ironic Snake couldn't tell. 

The next day Snake took his truck down the mountain and into Valdez, a gaggle of whimpering, wiggling, barking puppies loaded into the back. His lead dog, Dart, rode in the cab with him on the passenger side, leaning out the window, nose straining at the passing trees in sheer canine bliss. 

He didn't venture into town very often. It wasn't so much that he was avoiding human contact; it was simply that he never felt he had the patience or the time to deal with the ordinary, everyday types. Normal people worried about bills, insurance, car payments. They went into the office for a few hours a day, and when they came home they put their work aside for another day to eat dinner with their families, watch TV, and sleep. There was always time to take the weekends off, to go on vacation, to sleep in, to enjoy small things to help break up the monotony. 

Snake's job lurked around the corners and between the dark cracks of his life. It was on the news and in the papers, parodied in movies and on TV shows. The dramatizations of war were ridiculous. He'd seen far too many dramatic, drawn out death scenes, meaningful last words whispered into the astonished ears of best friends, parents, lovers, and every time it brought the same hollow feeling back again, a sensation uncomfortable enough to make him want to squirm. 

Hollywood gave the illusion of chances, gift-wrapped the idea that there was always time to get out that one last line before all the blood ran from your wounds and the breath left your body. There was always time to tell someone you loved them before you were gone forever. The media promoted the idea of noble sacrifice; of course, it assured the listening public, of course those young soldiers who are dead and dying now thought of nothing but the cause until the very end. Of course they never cried and begged for their lives. Of course the idea of running away never crossed their minds. Of course. 

It made him think of Frank, sometimes, in a cold and empty sort of way. Frank had understood a lot, without ever needing to hear or say much. 

It was possible he'd understood too well. 

Snake kept the tools of his trade close and on hand at all times. There was always a gun at the ready, always a knife somewhere convenient. That was his job. Snake was good at his job. He had to be; it was no 9-5. Accountants didn't have to worry about getting killed because they couldn't add the numbers fast enough. Soldiers and spies were a little different. 

The veterinarian's office was an hour from closing when he arrived, but he parked the truck anyway and led his unwieldy little band inside, Dart herding any strays that threatened to wander. Snake shook hands with the doctor, a tall black man who greeted him warmly, and ignored the two or three assistants who were already cooing over the bright-eyed puppies. 

"Just here for shots, Dr. Hendrix," Snake assured, the first of the puppies on the examining table, and Hendrix nodded. 

"Five of them?" he said. "How's the mother?" 

"She's fine. Healthy." Snake leaned against the wall, crossing his arms. Dart sat at his side, tongue lolling comfortably. "Wasn't expecting a pregnancy while I was gone, but no harm done, I guess." 

"It's been a while since we've seen you," Hendrix agreed, in between soothing murmurs to the whimpering puppy he was injecting. "I hope everything's all right." 

"I had some family business to take care of. It's fine now." The moment the words left his mouth Snake caught the near pun, and narrowly avoided a groan. The vet, luckily, didn't seem to notice his momentary cringe, as he only nodded and hummed in a politely listening sort of way. 

Two hours later the vaccinations were complete, and the puppies were awarded a clean bill of health. Hendrix offered to have a look at Dart as well, but Snake had declined, under the pretense that it was getting dark out. 

"Next time," he promised, and Hendrix grinned, shaking his hand. Snake paid the bill and left. 

"It's stupid, really," he muttered to Dart, as they sat in the car in the parking lot. The dog looked up at him, innocently uncomprehending. "Stupid to think of dreams as anything more than dreams." 

Otacon was snoring on the sofa when he returned, the lack of sleep apparently having caught up to him at last. Snake opened the door and glanced in, stomping the snow off his boots before he stepped inside. The wall clock, if he squinted at it, appeared to read something like seven or eight o'clock. Snake bypassed it, heading instead to the kitchen to haul a new bag of dog food out from under the sink. He took it outside and filled the dog dishes, giving the dogs who came to greet him a few affectionate pats and scratches before he headed inside again. 

The computer on the coffee table beeped as he stepped through the doorway. 

Snake froze, his eyes on it, alarm bells going off in the back of his head. Beeping could mean a lot of different things when it came to electronics, and none of them, in his experience, were good. The corner of the screen that he could see was white; something had knocked off the screensaver. 

He moved cautiously forward into the dark cabin, stepping around the back of the sofa to get a better look. 

It was then that he caught a glimpse of what was on the screen. He read the words as if in a daze, trying to gather himself, trying to put his mind back in the right place to deal with this. 

"You've got to be kidding me," he growled at last, for lack of anything better to say. 

Otacon didn't even stir. 

TO: s@philanthropy.org  
FROM: lisichka@hotmail.com  
SUBJECT: we need to talk

BODY:

I wasn't sure where else to contact you. Reply to this email as soon as you get it. Don't delete it. Please don't delete it. And don't show it to anyone else.

-Naomi


	4. Chapter 4

It took nearly three days before he could settle himself back into a fully acceptable state of apathy. He ran out of cigarettes on the second day, and for the first time since he'd moved in to his remote hideaway he made a frivolous trip down the mountain and into town, simply to sate the nicotine addiction that screamed at his temples, threatening to shatter what little sanity he estimated he had left.

Triumphant in his purchase, Snake stood on the street corner and lit one, breathing in deeply. The cold air burned at his lungs at first, but after a few more puffs the smoke was warming it away. 

He hadn't said anything to Otacon about his sudden disappearance, but he figured the other man would've guessed, judging by the two or three hours Snake had stalked around the living room, snarling fruitlessly about how he was giving up smoking for good, wasn't dependent on the damn things at all, could quit whenever he wanted. 

He hadn't received much reaction for his growling, just a brief and quizzical look, followed by a quiet, "Sure thing." Otacon was tired of battling, obviously, and had no desire to make issue of the finer points of Snake's addiction, even if Snake had left himself wide open to an argument. 

And despite himself and his admittedly selfish focus Snake could tell that the issue was weighing on Otacon as well. 

_Naomi._

He didn't know what to think. This woman, the traitor, who'd turned on him in the middle of a mission for something that hadn't been his responsibility to begin with. It was so far beyond Snake's experience to have the subject of such betrayal reach out to him that he still couldn't seem to make this thoughts settle into a definite conclusion. The virus designed genetically to kill him was still in his blood, waiting for the right moment to stop his heart. He could expect no immunity. 

So what did she want from him? 

Her pound of flesh, obviously, but he could no longer tell if it was that same twisted duty she felt towards her fallen brother or genuine hatred. Hatred could make a person do things beyond the norm. 

Then again, he reflected, with an unconscious sigh, so could duty. 

Snake stepped off the corner when the light changed and headed back to his truck, puffing moodily on his cigarette and squinting narrow-eyed at the horizon, where a haze of smooth grey cloud was forming. More snow, and soon. In the truck's cabin he switched on the radio for a moment, and sat back in his seat to blow a great cloud of smoke at the roof while he half ignored the music. The song seemed harmless enough until the lyrics began to filter in through his awareness at last. 

_For now I smell the rain, and with it pain and it's heading my way..._

"Fuck that," Snake growled, rolling his eyes as he hit the tuning button. 

The radio skipped up two notches, and settled into hissing static. Snake closed his eyes, breathed slowly in and out, and imagined it was the sound of distant rain. 

"I liked that song." 

The voice was too familiar. Snake opened one eye and looked sideways as far as he could without moving his head. His reflection slouched casually in the passenger seat against the door, gazing at him steadily. "Took it a little personally, did you?" 

This had gone beyond the realm of tolerable and was skittering dangerously into hallucination. Snake stared back openly. "You're not real," he informed the specter, quietly, as though telling it so would make it realize this. 

His reflection grinned at him smugly, solid and whole, and shook his head. "I feel pretty real," he said, tapping the side of his head with two fingers. "Don't you?" 

This sounded dangerously like a riddle of some kind; Snake chose silence over the possibility of a wrong answer, instead surveying the other carefully. It wasn't quite like looking into a mirror. There were differences, subtle but there. The color of the eyes, bluer than green. The hair, a shade or two darker, a little longer in the back. A few lines in the face that Snake himself didn't have, most of them obviously from frowning. 

Aware of his scrutiny the specter’s expression didn't change from that maddening, certain calm. He was watching Snake as much as Snake was watching him. 

"Come on," he said at last, shifting and letting his head thunk back against the passenger side window. It made a dull sound. Real. "You still don't get it?" 

"Get what." Snake's voice was flat and toneless, his teeth clenched, fists following. He really was losing his mind. 

"What I want from you," replied the other, steadily. 

_"Don't ignore what frightens you,"_ whispered a voice in his ear, one he'd never heard before, one that chilled him to a place deep in his stomach. Snake held his breath, feeling goose bumps rise along his arms. He didn't dare turn to see; the impression he got was of cold, deep and frostbiting beyond even the snow. 

His reflection was nodding in agreement, as though eldritch voices out of nowhere were perfectly acceptable. Snake forced himself to breath once more; he'd thrown away fear like this so long ago as a rookie he was not about to allow it to take him over again. 

"I don't need this," he said instead, grinding his teeth together so hard it almost hurt. "I'll move on. I'll get enough sleep. I'll quit smoking. And you'll _go away._ " 

_"You are a fool,"_ the cold voice murmured, breathing freezing air against the back of his neck, and Snake, seized unavoidably by terror, twisted around to see- 

-And woke himself up doing so, when his elbow hit the car horn and startled him right out of sleep. 

He didn't speak of it when he returned home. What point was there? Was he going to explain to Otacon that a combination of sleep deprivation and what was probably guilt was making him see things? That he'd apparently developed some kind of supernatural narcolepsy? Instead he sat at the kitchen table, watching the scientist poke listlessly at his laptop. The table itself was scattered with charts, folders, and graphs, some bearing names he recognized, some not. _Langley. London, MI6. Moscow_ , (though this one bore a large red X across the manila, and below that Otacon's swift scrawl spelled out the words "NO GO" followed by a tiny cartoon woman with large eyes shaking a warning finger) _Berlin, Shanghai._

Snake paused in his half-hearted examination of the table's contents. 

"Otacon." 

Otacon held up a hand without looking up from his computer, indicating that Snake should wait a moment. Snake, being Snake, did not. "What's in Shanghai?" 

"One of my contacts," Otacon said, voice distracted by whatever it was he was currently working on. "She won't tell me what division she works for, but she's in a position to monitor the comings and goings of a-" and he looked up and grinned as he said this, "-a _crapload_ of weapons grade plutonium." 

"Could be lying to you," Snake commented, putting his chin in his hand placidly. "You believe everything you read on the internet, Hal?" 

The usage of his real name seemed to warrant a momentary pause from Otacon. Clearly he hadn't been expecting such familiarity. "Of... of course not," he replied, nervously adjusting his glasses. "But she hasn't given me any reason to distrust her, either... and her story checks out." His tone sharpened slightly. "I run background on anything I get, Snake, I'm not an idiot, you know." 

A whole myriad of smart-assed and probably nasty responses flooded Snake's mind. He opened his mouth, thinking of his dreams, the feelings of rage and frustration at being unable to puzzle out the meaning behind the less than normal, the significance of a specter who looked just like him but not, and abruptly realized that he was on the verge of taking out a serious personal issue on an innocent man. 

He stopped, mouth still open, brow quirking slightly. What a time to develop a conscience, he thought, though he knew that wasn't the case. 

"No," he said finally, in a somewhat quieter tone, even managing to muster the ghost of a tired smile. "You're not." 

Snake made dinner that night, hasty pasta with sauce and not much else. He wouldn't classify himself as a "good cook", but he knew enough to feed a single bachelor comfortably. Feeding two of them just meant doubling the amount made. Night was beginning to fall early again, as winter set in, but it was still too bright for Otacon's taste when eight o'clock rolled around; the sunset light falling through the front windows of the cabin was distracting him, he announced, and began to unhook his laptop to move it into one of the windowless other rooms. 

Sitting on the sofa, Snake unfolded the other computer and turned it on after a moment's brief hesitation to find the button. Modern technology, when not explained to him by a crack team of scientists and technicians and the occasional very cute Chinese girl, tended to be somewhat bemusing. The computer hummed musical acknowledgement and began to boot up. 

"You going to respond?" 

He lifted his head. Otacon had paused in the doorway, the laptop under his arm. It really wasn't necessary to elaborate on what he meant; they both understood what he was referring to. 

"Yeah," Snake allowed at last. He couldn't see another way around it. Naomi's contact was going to weigh on his mind forever until he did something about, until he responded. _I'm here, I'm listening, whatever I owe you or you owe me, tell me what it is you want, and I'll listen. I'm listening._

He half expected some kind of eager advice from the other man, something puppyish and naive. _Forgive and forget. Try to see her side of the story. See if you can get information out of her._

But all Otacon said was, "Be careful, okay?" 

He blinked, and nodded. Otacon smiled at him, and left. 

Snake sat silently for a long time, staring down at the screen and the e-mail on it, until, at last, when the room had gone completely dark save for the computer's glow, he typed a single word into the reply box, and hit send. 

**FROM:** _s@philanthropy.org_  
 **TO:** _lisichka@hotmail.com_  
 **SUBJECT:** _re: we need to talk_

**TEXT:**

well? 

It was another five hours before he received his reply. 

He read it three times over, the first a quick scan to determine the nature of the message, the second a sort of amazed, dumbfounded double-take, the third a careful and deliberate savoring of each word. There was no one else here to watch the emotions register on his face, as Otacon had gone to bed long ago, and so he made no attempts to hide them. 

And at last he closed the computer, without bothering to shut it down. 

He went out barefoot onto the porch, uncaring of the cold, and he stood and leaned against the railing, squinting as the dawning rays of the sun hit his eyes. 

And he didn't laugh with the wild, shattering relief that filled him, because that wasn't him, wasn't his style, but he did grin, fierce and pleased and alive. 

***

**FROM:** _lisichka@hotmail.com_  
 **TO:** _s@philanthropy.org_  
 **SUBJECT:** _re: re: we need to talk_

TEXT: 

He used to talk about you, you know. Sometimes when I'd ask him to tell me about what he did during the day, he would start up and tell me some story or another about something the two of you had done, some mission. We didn't see each other very often as I got older, so I really loved to hear his stories... though honestly it didn't matter what he talked to me about. I just liked to hear his voice. 

When I found out what had been done to him I had to have someone to blame. You were so easy. I know these things are never so simple, Snake. I know it now and I knew it then, but I was foolish and angry and wounded, and by God, Snake, I wanted someone else to hurt as much as I did. 

So, when the opportunity arose, I took it. You know the rest of the story, of course, but I neglected to explain to you the details, which in this case are the most important of all. 

No, FOX-DIE was not my idea. That came from above me. The alteration, however, was mine. I knew about your genetics. I'd studied the files closely. But I wasn't counting on the later alterations made to the documents. 

Snake, I altered the virus strain to ensure that it would kill the genetically superior twin. Of course it would still do its job regarding the other FOXHOUND agents, but of the Les Infantes, only one of you was meant to die. 

I didn't tell you this before. I think I still wanted to hurt you. I wanted you to be afraid of what the future might hold, like I was. Even after what you told me, after everything you'd been through... I know it wasn't easy. But I was selfish. Maybe I still am. After all, I'm telling you all of this for my own peace of mind. The ghosts of my past are catching up with me, it seems. 

You aren't going to die of the virus. Not now, not ever. Because you're not what they said you were. You never are, Snake, ever. 

I just wanted you to know.


	5. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...

FROM: j5786@vr12.foxserv.gov  
TO: huntmaster@foxserv.gov  
SUBJECT: re: Your status change and congratulations

TEXT:

Dear Sirs, 

I'm replying to say thank you very much for the continued opportunity. I was a little surprised to hear about this so fast... I thought the VR12 unit had another three months to go before selection? Not that I'm not grateful! It just confused me, is all.

Yes, I'd be willing to run the Shadow Moses sim again. I've had some time to study it and I think my next run could be the fastest yet. I promise to do my best to live up to the expectation placed on me by the organization. 

I have received my change in schedule as well as my new living quarters. Yes, they're agreeable, thank you. I will let you know if I need anything else.

I am eager to receive my codename as soon as possible. If there's anything else I'm needed for, please let me know.

Sincerely,  
Trainee #5786  
Jack Sears  
Division VR-12


End file.
